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Charles is damn certain they should have left that rum where they found it. He’s been drunk before, of course, what man hasn’t? But this feels like something else all together. He feels light and warm, like he might blow away with a decent gust of wind. Or, he would, if Arthur weren’t keeping him anchored to the ground. Arthur is clearly feeling the effects of the booze; he’s been singing to himself for the past few minutes, words slurring and running together in a way that Charles would find annoying if it were anyone else. But, as it’s Arthur, well, it’s just plain adorable.
‘Adorable’ wouldn’t have been a word Charles would have used to describe this man six months ago. ‘Rough’, ‘cold’, ‘distant’, sure. Not that Charles couldn’t understand how the world would turn any man to stone, set him so far away from others that he has no hope of ever connecting with them again. He’d been that way when he’d met the Van Der Linde Gang, or so he’d thought. Over the months leading to the present, Arthur had - unintentionally - shown Charles just how wrong he was on that count.
Hunting trips, scouting missions or the rare ride out from camp to get some much needed space had proven that Charles wasn’t nearly as closed off as he had thought. Or, perhaps he was and it was only Arthur who could slip into the cracks of Charles’ armor and make a home for himself right next to Charles’ heart.
As that happened, Charles came to understand Arthur more clearly. He was distant, but only to those who he’d yet to consider worthy of his trust. Worthy of being allowed near his family and those he cared for so deeply. And he cared, more than any man Charles has met thus far. It’s a wonder the man can carry around a heart that size and not buckle under the weight of it, Charles thinks.
He could be cold or brutal in flashes, but those were in contrast with emotions that came more naturally to him. The brutality was, if anything, artificial. A disguise or a part he would play when required, but not something he enjoyed or would ever do if he had the choice. Over the months, Charles had learned to describe Arthur Morgan using completely different words: kind, loyal, intelligent, damaged.
Arthur had been torn apart by grief, nearly cleaved in half by it. They were all damaged, all of them walked through the world with ghosts on their heels. But, Charles found the ghosts hounding Arthur impossible to ignore. He felt compelled to try and ease the pain where he could and however Arthur would allow it.
A deep, rough chuckle drags him from his thoughts and he shakes his head slightly, rubbing his eyes with his hand.
“Y’fall asleep on me, Charles? Never’d figure you for a lightweight, seein’ as you’re built like a god damn bear”, Arthur has moved to sit next to Charles where he’s propped up on a large piece of deadwood. His long hair is starting to fall into his eyes and it looks almost golden in the firelight. Charles has an insane urge to reach out and tuck it behind Arthur’s ear, but thinks better of it.
“What the hell are you talking about now?” Charles doesn’t try and stop the smile from showing on his face. He doesn’t need to keep his feelings hidden, not around this man.
Arthur scrunches up his nose and snorts and Charles is powerless to stop the smile from turning into an all-out grin when he sees it.
Ya know what I mean, Charles! You’re like a...I mean you’re...so damn...big”, Arthur holds his hands out in an attempt to illustrate just how wide Charles is. The distance is commercial in the sense that no man could possibly be so large as that. A horse, maybe.
With both of his hands up, Arthur loses his balance and starts to topple over and Charles grabs the front of his coat with his fist just in time to keep Arthur’s face from landing in the dirt.
“Easy there, cowboy. Why don’t you keep at least one hand on the ground? That way you won’t get a mouth full of mud.”
“D’ya hear what I said, Charles?” Arthur’s turned to face Charles and they’re close enough that Charles can smell the rum and cigarettes on the other man’s breath. They’re close enough that their knees are touching and Charles feels like his entire world has narrowed to that single point of contact.
“‘Course I did, Arthur. You said I was large, like a bear.”
Arthur’s face falls in a comical way and Charles has to bite his cheek to keep from laughing at him.
“No, no, not jus-- I didn’t mean it like that”, Arthur huffs and looks away from Charles. He seems to crestfallen over something, but Charles can’t work out what he could have missed.
Swallowing thickly, Charles lets go of the front of Arthur’s shirt, only to use that hand to gently turn his cheek so they’re face to face again. He leaves his fingers there, his thumb gently rubbing the stubble that’s grown in after a few days without shaving.
“Tell me what you meant then, Arthur.” Charles’ voice is soft, sultry in a way that he knows makes women and girls blush and giggle. He’s tried it on a few men in his time, but the results are nowhere near as consistent. He has no way of knowing how Arthur himself will react to it.
Rather than pushing Charles away or anything of that sort, Arthur simply stares at him. In the glow of the fire, Charles is able to see his flushed cheeks turn a darker shade of red. The flush creeps down his neck and disappears into the collar of his shirt. Charles wonders, idly, just how far down that blush goes.
Arthur still doesn’t speak, just swallows thickly and licks his lips. The pink tip of Arthur’s tongue running over his full lips sets Charles’ blood alight. He feels warm from head to toe, glowing and soft in a way that no booze has ever made him feel.
Charles slowly moves his hand and cups the side of Arthur’s face and leans in closer, turning his face as if he’s about to press his lips to Arthur’s before he whispers, again, “Tell me what you meant.”
Arthur is shaken from his trance then, “S-strong. You’re so strong, Charles.”
Charles hums low in his chest, moving his lips an inch closer to Arthur’s, “Bears are strong, that’s true.”
“You got--your-” Arthur stops then, and tries to turn his face away, hiding from whatever it is he wants to say. Charles turns his face back, gently, but firmly.
“No, no hiding. No hiding from me, Arthur. Tell me.”
“I...Charles..”, Arthur whimpers, and it’s something Charles has never heard from him. There’s fear in it and Charles feels his gut clench at the sound of it.
Charles pulls his face back to look Arthur in the eye, bringing his free hand to cup the other side of the man’s face.
“No hiding, Arthur. You never have to hide anything from me. I promise.”
When Arthur hesitates again, Charles takes that moment to lean in and press his lips gently to Arthur’s.
There’s a moment or two when Charles worries he might be shoved away, when the walls that have been torn down might come springing back up to lock him out. A moment or two before Arthur a soft sound and starts to return the kiss.
They kiss slowly, testing and tasting each other like they have all of the time in the world to do it. Charles tastes the rum and the cigarettes Arthur had smoked before they’d uncorked the bottle earlier that night. His lips are somewhat chapped, but still softer than Charles had expected. Charles is more than happy to share these chaste kisses, to take whatever Arthur is willing to give, when he feels the tip of Arthur’s tongue trace his bottom lip.
Charles shivers at the feeling of it and opens his mouth wider to allow Arthur more access. From there the kisses quickly become more heated. Wet, open-mouthed kisses that make Charles’ head swim like he’s a boy of sixteen again. It’s a heady feeling, added onto the warm glow that’s still spread over him from top to toe. He doesn’t need to break the kissing to guess how Arthur feels.
If Charles had taken time to imagine how Arthur Morgan might kiss, he has to admit that this isn’t quite what he had expected.
All of the cool reserve and careful suppression of emotion cracks and shatters. He kisses like he’s desperate for it, starving for it. He licks inside of Charles' mouth like tasting him is the single most important thing, the only thing. Charles has been kissed by many people and in many ways, but he’s never had anyone kiss him quite like this. With an intensity that sends sparks of desire crackling through him like lightning.
It’s Charles who breaks the kiss. He pulls back, chest heaving, heart pounding and he feels himself smiling again, wide and warm.
Arthur whines at the lack of contact and tries to close the distance, only for Charles to push him back, just a touch.
“You never told me what else you meant, Arthur”, Charles teases, voice rough and breathless.
Arthur groans and grabs at the front of Charles’ heavy shirt, “C’mon, Charles. I-I need-Please?”
Desire churns heavy and hot in Charles’ gut when he hears Arthur damn near beg. He’s got his forehead pressed to Charles’ and he’s panting. His lips are swollen and slick with spit, his cheeks such a pretty shade of red. He’s stunning this way, all worked up and finally allowing himself to want.
Charles chuckles, sliding his hands down, past Arthur’s strong arms and coming to rest at his waist. He squeezes and delights in the way Arthur gasps and jumps just a bit at the new contact.
“Come on now, sweet thing. Tell me.”
Arthur whimpers again at the pet name, wriggles a bit where he sits in an attempt to get even closer. Charles holds him where he is, determined to get what he wants before giving Arthur what he needs.
“Charles--”
“Tell me.”
“You--I like your….your thighs.” If it were possible for Arthur to blush any deeper, Charles suspects that he would in that moment.
“My thighs, hm? I gotta admit, that’s not the answer I was expecting”, Charles muses. He isn’t quite sure what he had been expecting, really. Arthur is difficult to predict in some ways.
Arthur nods, eyes closed tightly, locks of his hair falling out from where they’d been tucked behind his ears.
“Yeah, yeah. I like your thighs. Like ‘em a lot. Strong an’-an’ thick.”
Charles’ self-control cracks then and he pulls Arthur into his lap, groaning softly at the weight of him pressed against his cock. He’s not quite fully hard, but if Arthur keeps talking the way he is, he’s not far from it.
Arthur, in an attempt to keep himself balanced, throws his arms around Charles’ neck. He buries his face in the meat of Charles’ shoulder and moans softly. Charles keeps his hands on Arthur’s waist, gripping a little more tightly. Arthur is swaying, just slightly, but enough to remind Charles of how much he’s had to drink. The better part of the bottle, if Charles remembers correctly.
As much as Charles would love to coax more out of Arthur, to hear what other parts of Charles he likes, Charles knows that whatever else happens between them needs to happen when they’re both sober. He, for his part, isn’t nearly as drunk as Arthur, but he isn’t as clear-headed as he would like to be. If he and Arthur do something like this again, he wants to remember every moment of it; he wants to carry the memory of the way Arthur tastes, the sounds he makes and the way he looks when he comes undone with him forever.
“I like your thighs too. I like an awful lot of you, as a matter of fact”, Charles whispers, letting the words fall softly on the shell of Arthur’s ear.
Arthur’s face is still buried in Charles’ neck, but his breathing is starting to even out. The hot and heavy panting is becoming the slow and measured breathing of someone closer to a state of sleep than wakefulness.
“Arthur?” Charles shakes him gently, warmth blooming in his chest when Arthur grunts and buries his nose deeper into Charles’ neck.
“We should get in the tent. It’s getting cold out.”
Arthur sits up, slowly, like his body is too heavy and ungainly to move with ease.
“Y’cold? I don’ want ya t’be cold. Can have m’coat,” Arthur slurs, voice thick with rum and a bone-deep weariness.
He leans further back like he might try to extract himself from his coat, but Charles stops him.
“You need your coat, Arthur. I’ll be plenty warm in the tent with you next to me. If you’d like?” Charles gently brushes hair out of Arthur’s face, tucking it back in place behind his ear.
Charles feels he should ask before crossing that particular line. Sleeping close with someone, Charles knows, is a sign of trust and not one to be taken lightly. Arthur has slept in a pop-tent near to his on previous outings, but they’ve never shared the same tent or bedroll before now.
Arthur blinks at him slowly for a moment, as if he’s trying to make sense of what Charles is asking him. Eventually, he nods and mumbles something Charles can’t quite make out. Charles accepts it, partly because he knows Arthur will only be conscious for a few more minutes at most and partly out of his own desire to sleep wrapped around him. It’s something he hadn’t thought about before now; he hasn’t allowed it in the past, no matter how many people he’d taken to bed. But with Arthur, it feels right, as if Arthur belongs beside him at night.
“Come on, the tent’s just there. I’ll help you with your boots.”
Arthur nods, eyes slipping closed even as he sits up on Charles’ lap. All it takes is a gentle push from Charles and he manages to climb off, landing heavily in the dirt. Charles chuckles and helps Arthur toward the tent, on his hands and knees, stopping him only to peel off his boots and place them outside the tent.
Charles eases Arthur onto his bedroll, covering him with the blanket before darting to Arthur’s tent and grabbing his own bedroll. Charles manages to squeeze into the tent beside Arthur, only just fitting, if they’re pressed flush against one another. After fussing with Arthur’s bedroll for a moment, Charles gets himself tucked in and he turns on his side, draping his arm over Arthur’s waist.
Charles doesn’t say anything as he settles himself for the night; Arthur is already snoring, not so much as twitching as Charles pressing his chest against Arthur’s back. Charles simply presses a soft kiss to the back of Arthur’s neck.
“Goodnight, Arthur.” It’s scarcely two minutes before Charles falls asleep himself, snoring softly.